


Whiskey and Milk

by fancyafic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyafic/pseuds/fancyafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunk John and a worried Sherlock. Oh dear, I wonder what happens? This is your average fluffy fanfic. The gist is clear. A bit of nose booping, a bit of confession, and a bit of 'wherethehell/does/themilkgo?'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey and Milk

**Author's Note:**

> A fluffy bit which could possibly develop into something more-stay tuned if interested folks!  
> Next chapter should be posted in a few days. Writing in my free time. Apologies that this one is so short, but I I don't want to write much more than my limited time frame allows. If I see others are interested, I'll update with longer chapters.  
> Oh, and feel more than free to comment with any suggestions on what you'd like to see or what I can improve upon. Not opposed to criticism :)

With much struggle did he stumble from the tavern's rugged interior; heels becoming suddenly as heavy as his wallet was empty. It was only by chance that John's phone buzzed for the umpteenth time on their outing, Greg mustering his threadbare sobriety and laying the soles of his worn leather loafers on the side of John's stool-fully intent on tipping the tipsy blonde to the murky floors.  
"Mate, he's beckonin-" Lestrade's own thought was interrupted by the scratch of brandy warming his throat, reaction time severely delayed gauging by his disproportional sentence gaps. Clearly, the man's glass was the medium through which conversation was even relatively possible. John wasn't in any state to halt the string of common accusations that were about to slosh from Lestrade's mouth, due to the hindrance of his thoughts being blissfully numbed from the whiskey which his taunter was, at this point in the evening, providing. A shrill hiccup was initiated to his right, followed by the flushed cheeks of Mike Stamford. Out of the three, he was the least pissed. Mike never was one for a full on black-out. Whether this could be attributed to his bashful nature, his self control, or his size, the man's alcohol tolerance was one to be marveled.  
"Sherlock, mate." Lestrade weakly prompted the gibes once more, one eyelid drooping to conceal half of his glazed over brown iris. Was he winking or falling asleep, John wondered as he spun to halfway face him. "He's beckoning you back to your- your flat. " Brief silence ensued as he finished his glass with a firm swallow, apparently quenched with the effort of providing a full sentence. "You know. Suuure you do, Johnny. So you can inspect his- his--" Whatever John was supposed to be observing in this scenario must have been a riot, because Lestrade's face colored red, chest heaving like the man had just sprinted a marathon as boisterous laughter boomed down the bar.  
Thankfully Stamford was willing to lend his interpretation, eyebrows wiggling with amusement. "I do believe he's trying to make a penis joke."  
"Key bit be 'trying', mate." John scoffed. "The least you could have done was come up with a... a.." John downed a shot and murmured incoherently, once again leaving Stamford to decipher.  
"Relevant and witty one." He offered, John bobbing his head weakly in approval and jabbing the thick air with a sideways thumbs up.  
"Something like, 'He wants you home so you could inspect his magnifying glass'?' Lestrade quipped. "Or maybe you need to see IT with a magnifying glass, eh?" This time it was Mike's turn to crack up, bowing his head out of John's line of sight, though his belly joyfully jiggled in an uproar of laughter.  
"Mike!" The aggravated doctor hissed with only partial resentment, chuckling warmly into the heel of his own hand as his head began to slump.  
It was not soon after another round of shots that Stamford pried John's stubborn and stout little body from the door frame, hailing him a cab with a dramatic farewell wave so broad that he cracked his arm against a lamp post. Clearly, this was John's source of amusement for the duration of the twenty minute ride to Baker Street. In between chortling softly to himself (as the cabbie shot piercing glares, mind you), he managed to fish his mobile from his pocket and skim through his inbox.  
Nineteen messages.  
Surely he read wrong, he thought. John brought the screen so it was within three centimeters of his comically widened eyes. No, still said nineteen. Just in a more pixelated manner.  
"Alright." He whistled under his breath and opened them one by one, both dread and amusement churned in his stomach (or was that the last shot of whiskey?).  
(9:03) John, you've clearly been neglecting my dietary needs. Milk. There is none. You have eyes, correct? Use them before your next grocery outing. Buy. Milk.  
(9:38) You're clearly fulfilling your duty as a flatmate and purchasing the milk.  
(9:40) ...Buy the kind with the blue top and the crossword puzzle on the back.  
(10:12) Only you could manage to turn a five minute task into an hour long phenomenon.  
(10:30) If you've been kidnapped again, know I refuse to retrieve you until milk has been offered as ransom.  
(10:36) Have you ever wondered what I do with all this milk, John?  
(10:37) I mean it. My deductive ways must not have infiltrated your layer of drab. How you can open the fridge every morning and not ask once where it all goes? You've asked countless times about the heads and feet.  
(11:02) It must be so relaxing to be a complete and utter idiot. Text me, or I'll assume Mycroft has carved you like a Christmas turkey.  
(11:10) Has Christmas happened yet?  
(11:15) Checked a calendar. When were you going to inform me that it was September?  
(11:24) John.  
(11:27) John. John. John. John. John. John. John. John. John.  
(11:56) You're out at some dingy pub, aren't you? No doubt with your two musketeers. Trying to pick up a woman no doubt.  
(12:14) One of your best lines surely is- "You're sweeter than jam."  
(12:15) Or better yet- "My jam jiggles, but it has nothing on your arse."  
(12:34) I've cataloged your pick up lines, John. You've much to be concerned with. They all pertain to jam. All. Of. Them.  
(12:59) My skull is worried about you. If he had skin, he'd be developing worry lines.  
(1:12) I've opened and closed the fridge thirty times and still- no milk. Clearly, my will isn't enough to conjure a carton.  
(1:15) I would say we could buy a cow but then Mycroft would be virtually useless.

John swiped back to the home-screen, shocked to find it was damn near two o'clock in the morning. Thank God he hit the pubs on a Friday because his hangover was already looming like an ominous thunder cloud. It was surely hit hard tomorrow-- well, technically later that day. However, he was equally intoxicated as he was somnolent so being technical wasn't exactly a top priority. Upon this epiphany, the cab rolled to a complete stop outside of 221. Let the drunken clambering up the stairs commence, John thought with a minuscule grimace. Fishing through his coat pocket for the key, his hand was moronically stuck in the threads and he began hopping about, somehow managing to resemble an awkward rain dance. The key was found with a triumphant squeal of vehement delight, the promise of a soft pillow near. Sherlock could be dealt with tomorrow if he could sneak up the stairs with the deftness of James Bond.   
The key made a tiny knock as the gears clicked, and the door's rusty hinges emitted a sound so pitchy that only dog's could hear it. Beside those small glitches, John reassured himself he was doing quite well. He tiptoed gently over the stairs, taking one at a time with both hands drawn up to his chest like a cartoon mouse whose goal was to sneak cheese. Once their flat's door was near, he shuffled silently across the cream carpet and rose his hand to the knob, relief flooding his chest. That is, until the door swung open on it's own accord, and gravity offered little choice than to fall nose first. Luckily, a hand grasped John by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him to standing. The hand was familiar. Luminescent and pale with protruding knuckles, lean and calloused fingers..   
"Sherlock!"


End file.
